The Muse (a meditation on a most elusive creature)

A Glimpse

There’s a spectrum of writing that’s not dictated by forethought but is inspired; a euphoric process, the words produced are raw and messy at best. These thrashings are often the closest one will ever get to capturing the spirit of a meaning, an emotion or thought; brief, butterfly moments, as sporadic as they are unreliable.

But there is a dark side to this. Once an artist has created something beyond oneself, the person will inevitably seek to repeat — or worse, exceed it. To peel the layers of dirt and discover the rare ores of the soul is not an act one can simply perform once. The problem lies in our inability to control it.

And so we enter the Muse. She is a creature of necessity. If we cannot control how our inspiration arrives, perhaps we can seek the bridge by which it travels. The Muse is a means to connect with our deepest self but She is, by nature, set apart from the artist. Without this separation She is impotent. The artist must never touch what inspires him or her, least they risk losing Her. Such is the tragedy of the relationship. Such is the beauty.

The Gulf Between

Nature abhors a vacuum, and so too does an artist. To fill the void the painter paints and the writer writes. Art in all its forms is a sketch on a blank canvas; to get rid of the white. While anyone can mark the page an artist is obsessed with easing our collective anxiety over this space: ghostly shadows of what is felt but not held, what is seen but not tasted. It is a pull that is quite gentle and persistent, an undercurrent coiled around the ankles. If one can resist drowning, you will drift deeper into the vast ocean, and it is there where greatness lies.

A Muse is therefore the siren. But instead of steering away from Her we must draw closer. Our task is not one of complete avoidance. Our job is to court the Siren so Her music grants life over death. It is a fierce and ultimately heartbreaking affair, challenging the artist for the duration of one’s life.

The Fatal Touch

Mankind’s first encounter with a Muse involved a garden and a snake who promised glory. A single bite to open the eyes. To rid the white of its infinite forms and give meaning — concrete substance, to the sublime. A slithering pull we could not resist. Sweet Eve felt it. She did not know the Muse brings inspiration through destruction, for only in death can we shake the soul from its prison.

Had Eve held the apple upon Her lips, felt its texture but not its taste, Eden might still be with us. But a Muse never speaks. And so the snake offered the apple as the key but did not offer the reward.

This happened time and time again. Mankind knew nothing of patience or humility as a child. But a Muse can be a humbling teacher.

Love

The muse is an instigator. A tempter. She is a guide who refuses to lead the way. A contradiction. To love the Muse is to savor the cup and not the water inside. So when we speak of love we are not talking about one half of a whole. We are tasting a bitter sweet substance, drinking a liquor of a most dangerous quality in a most dangerous quantity.

A good Muse will not return your love. We must remember that She is set apart from us, and the pull we feel is the compulsion to splash the blank canvas in violent strokes of red and gold. Our love is the fuel for the art and Her impossible reach helps keep the fire burning. Rejection is a catalyst, and the greater we dedicate ourselves to the Muse the closer we are to inspiration.

We learn from Her. We grow. Our devotion is a selfless one, it does not depend on the acceptance of another. It is self contained, unflinching and immortal. We embrace the tragic and the beautiful. The cruel and the forgiving. An artists gives and gives until there is nothing left. Each failure pushes us to evolve; you see, the Muse is not cruel. She is patient. She is precise. And when She has found what She is looking for, your suffering will reveal itself to be a blessing.

Of Many Faces

A Muse has many faces. She is never content with one form, for life is never still. If you think you can cage Her then take a moment to look around; surely you will find the bars to your own prison soon enough.

Because the Muse is fluid an artist will find one medium does not suffice. Paints are as limiting as words, and words as limiting as song and art itself is suddenly struck mute. It is time for a resurrection.

Blank slates. We are building ourselves back up under Her gaze, learning to communicate again. There is no single object to worship. No means to study Her. By admitting this we learn to let go. For art starts with possession. Our creations are products of our will: we own it, we sell it, we crave recognition for it. So when we stumble upon the Muse we are quick to capture, but with each attempt She will cut us down. Foolish. Naive. The art was never ours, nor was it Hers. We are simply highlighting the space, pulling out the colors buried in the white.

And what beauty it is when artists discover that the Muse — whose face lies in every blade of grass, each sunset and upon the smile of strangers — also lies in them.

The Muse

At once utterly holy and painfully intimate, She leaves Her mark in history as She skips along the sand. See Her laugh and play, the world balanced on Her naked hips, all for a single moment in time. A spark to set this dream on fire. Such a wicked game She plays.

And She beckons.

Among the multitude of tissue paper wings, clapping softly in the night, we take off —

Like moths to a flame.